


Who Let the Dogs Out?

by Ejella



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Dogs will be dogs, M/M, Pre-Season/Series 01, The dogs are smarter than their people, dog park
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-28
Updated: 2014-08-28
Packaged: 2018-02-15 02:56:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2213097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ejella/pseuds/Ejella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a Dog Park AU! Sherlock takes a case which leads him to investigate a local dog club where he meets a very intriguing former army doctor. </p>
<p>Sorry for the cheesy title, but I couldn't resist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who Let the Dogs Out?

“What the hell is _that_?”

Mycroft looked like he wanted to roll his eyes, but didn’t because it was beneath him. “Really, brother mine. I always did wonder at your intelligence level, but one would hope that not even you are that dim.”

Sherlock schooled his features, not allowing his brother to see the sting of the barb. Although he was smarter than 99% of the population, it galled that Mycroft was part of that minority who outclassed him. By his brother’s raised eyebrow, Sherlock knew he must have made some miniscule gesture that had not gone unnoticed. There was something about his older brother that always made him feel like an uneducated child.

In a practiced move of nonchalance, Sherlock casually dropped onto the sofa, crossing his legs and checking his cuffs. “Get to the point, brother _dear_ ,” he said with as much disdain as possible. Mycroft didn’t bother to check his eye roll this time. “There must be a reason you called me to the inner sanctum.”

Sherlock had been contemplating a new experiment when his brother had ‘requested’ his presence. In truth, the request came with two brutish guards and the threat that they would bodily manhandle him into the car if he resisted. Sherlock had not been gracious in his acquiescence but he had gone nonetheless.

“That _thing_ as you so eloquently put it is the reason I asked you here.”

Asked my arse, Sherlock grumbled under his breath. Mycroft merely smiled at him. “What was that you said? You know how Mummy dislikes it so when you mumble.”

Sherlock hadn’t spent the last thirty odd years with his brother without learning how to get a bit of his own back. “Oh for God’s sake, do get on with it, _Myc.”_

Mycroft narrowed his eyes, and Sherlock thought this meeting was just about to get interesting. To his disappointment, his brother did not rise to the bait. Instead, he took a calming breath while smoothing the front of his waistcoat.

“You’re no fun anymore,” Sherlock groused. “This job has made you old and stodgy.” He eyed Mycroft’s waistline. “Not to mention fat,” he added as if an afterthought.

“Perhaps you are the one getting old, brother,” Mycroft said in a seemingly bored tone. “Your insults are dull and repetitive. It would help if you found some new material.”

Sherlock flushed at the gibe. “As I said, get on with it. I’m a very busy man.”

Mycroft snorted derisively. “Yes, so busy that my people found you sitting around your flat in your pajamas staring at dust patterns.”

“Dust is eloquent!”

“Yes,” Mycroft rejoined smoothly. “So say all slobs.”

Since being insulted by his brother had not been on his list of things to do today, Sherlock started to stand. Mycroft sighed in irritation. “Do sit down, Sherlock. There is a reason I called you here today.”

“Fine,” Sherlock said crossly as he resettled himself on the sofa. “But be quick about it.”

“I need your help with a case.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened in surprise. “Now that is a change up! Mycroft the indomitable asking for help.” He tapped his lips as in thought. “Let me see. No.”

Mycroft huffed out a breath. “This is of national importance.”

Snorting, Sherlock replied, “It always is with you.”

Leaning forward in his chair, Mycroft braced his hands on his legs. “People are dying, Sherlock. Good people.”

“When have you ever cared?”

“I care when people who dedicate their lives to their country are being slaughtered.” He ran his hand over his face in a weary gesture. “We have a leak. Someone is selling the names of our agents.” He rose from his chair and grabbed a file from his desk. Opening it, he pulled out ten pictures and laid them on the coffee table in front of Sherlock.

Faces, some solemn, some smiling, looked up at Sherlock. Seven men and three women. “Don’t you have people who investigate this sort of thing?” he asked, looking away from their frozen visages.

“Normally, yes, but until I know the source of the leak, I don’t know who I can trust.” His eyes locked on Sherlock’s. “No matter how much you may annoy me, I _know_ I can trust you.”

Sherlock felt flattened by the words. The Holmes brothers were not known for sentiment, and both would have verbally eviscerated anyone who suggested otherwise, but that did not stop the feeling of warmth that enveloped him. He cleared his throat. “Yes, well,” he said awkwardly, not knowing what else to say.

Mycroft also seemed a little lost, which secretly pleased Sherlock. It reassured him that his brother’s words had not been calculated.

“So, what does all of this have to do with _that_?” he asked, waving at the little bundle perched the armchair closest to the sofa.

The question seemed to jolt Mycroft out of his moment of sentimentality. “Oh for the love of god, Sherlock!” he burst out. “It’s not a thing, it’s a dog.”

“No,” Sherlock replied fervidly. “Redbeard was a dog. That is a…” He was at a loss for words as he stared at the small, brown bundle of fur who growled softly, almost as if it knew it was being disparaged.

“It’s a Miniature Poodle.”

Sherlock shook his head in disbelief. “It can’t weigh more than a stone.”

“Fifteen pounds to be precise,” Mycroft replied. “Hence the name Miniature,” he drawled sarcastically.

Sherlock frowned at him. “What does he –“

“She,” Mycroft interjected.

“What does _she_ have to do with the case?”

He tapped the photo of one of the men. “Peter Wright was investigating the leak. In his last report before he was killed, he mentioned he was suspicious of a dog group.”

“A dog group,” Sherlock asked incredulously. “Are you sure you got your information right?”

“Of course we’re sure,” his brother replied, sounding distinctly annoyed. Sherlock quickly smothered his emerging grin. “His notes pointed directly at an Under 20 group.”

“Oh!” Sherlock said delighted. “No wonder you need me. There is no way that you’d pass as under 20.”

“Honestly, Sherlock,” Mycroft bit out. “No wonder Mummy despairs so for you.”

Sherlock’s expression hardened immediately. “You leave Mummy out of this.”

Mycroft had a woeful look on his face, as if he was used to dealing with idiots. “It means under 20 pounds, not 20 years,” he said slowly. “Simply put, I need you to infiltrate the group and discover the leak.”

Bristling at his brother’s tone, he stood from the sofa and walked towards the armchair. He stared down at the dog, searching his mind palace for any information he might have on dogs other than his own beloved pet. His knowledge was sparse, but the poodle was a distinctive breed. He squatted down to her level to get a better look. The dog didn’t move, but Sherlock could tell she was wary.

Her light brown coat was curly, and surprising soft looking. Her shining black eyes stared at him haughtily over a narrow, elongated snout. He thought she almost looked regal.

“How did you come into possession of a dog?” Sherlock asked. “Did you snatch it off the streets out of some poor, unsuspecting child’s arms?”

“Hardly. She belonged to Stanley Arthur’s granddaughter. A slave to celebrity fashion, she demanded a dog she could use as an accessory. However, this one grew larger than expected and when she could no longer fit in a purse, the girl decided to trade down for a smaller dog. Luckily, Stanley was looking to rehome her when I found myself in need.”

Sherlock knelt in front of the chair, staring eye to eye with the dog. His brow furrowed. “What is _that?”_

Mycroft heaved a frustrated sigh. “Really, Sherlock? That again?”

“Not the dog,” Sherlock replied testily. “That thing around its neck.”

“I believe it’s known in common circles as a collar.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It’s pink, with _rhinestones_!” He reached toward the small creature, but she visibly bristled and bared her teeth at him.

“I should warn you,” Mycroft said casually. “She bites.”

Sitting back on his heels, Sherlock shook his head. “No wonder. I would bite too if I had to wear anything so hideous.”

“Apparently it’s all the rage with prepubescent girls.” He wrinkled his nose in distaste. “I often despair of the future of this kingdom.” He focused his gaze back on his brother. “You’ll take the case then? I had thought this would be perfect since you fancy yourself a detective.”

Sherlock glared at his brother. “I don’t fancy myself one. I _am_ one. A consulting detective, in fact.”

Mycroft made a noncommittal noise. “Prove it then by taking this case.”

Sherlock knew he was being manipulated, but what his brother had said, and not said, left him feeling raw. It was always this way, he thought. He always left their encounters feeling inferior. A small, insistent part of him wanted to take the case to prove he was just as clever.

“Very well,” he finally said. “I’ll do it. He stood up, brushing away any lint from his knees. “I’ll need the locations and dates the group meets. I’ll arrange to pick up the dog on those days. Where is she staying?”

Mycroft quirked a brow at him. “She’s staying with you, of course.”

Sherlock reared back. “Absolutely not!”

“Sherlock, you do not see the seriousness of the situation. These people are fanatical about their dogs. They’ll know if you’re just acting. They’ll never trust you and I need them to accept you.”

“It’s out of the question. My flat doesn’t allow dogs,” Sherlock replied. “My landlord is already looking for a reason to evict me.”

“I know you have your eye on a new place on Baker Street. I understand the landlady has a soft spot for you. I’m sure she’ll allow a temporary guest.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, carefully calculating his next steps. “If you know that, then you know I can’t afford the rent on my own. If this is a matter of urgency then I’ll never be able to find a flatmate in time. Unless…” he left the rest of the sentence unsaid, knowing his brother would understand.

Mycroft rolled his shoulders as it to dispel the tension he felt “Very well. I’ll pay half your rent for three months.”

“You’ll pay all of it for six months.”

“Half for four.”

“All for five. You need me more than I need you right now, brother dear.”

Mycroft stared at him before slightly inclining his head. “All for four.”

Sherlock grinned triumphantly. “Deal. Mummy will be so impressed by your generosity.”

Scowling, Mycroft walked back towards his desk. “Don’t push it, Sherlock.”

Feeling magnanimous, Sherlock spun back towards the dog and clapped his hands. “Looks like we’re going to be flatmates.” The dog’s eyes swung wildly at the abrupt movement. Her lips pulled back in a soft snarl, revealing sharp white teeth. Sherlock was fascinated by her reaction. He thought of all the ways he could study her responses to different stimuli. He went to call her, but realizing he didn’t know what her name was, he canted his head towards his brother. “Does she have a name?”

The smile Mycroft gave him was beatific. “Her name is Precious.”

Sherlock recoiled in horror. “No! There is _no_ bloody way I’ll be seen with a dog whose name is…” He couldn’t even bring himself to say the word.

Mycroft shrugged casually. “I understand she doesn’t answer to anything else.” He dangled the item he had retrieved from his desk. “You’ll need this.”

Sherlock took an appalled step back. It was a leash, a pink, rhinestone studded leash that matched the collar. He raised his hands as if to ward it off. “No dog of mine will be seen in that monstrosity.” He turned to the dog. “Come,” he commanded.

The dog didn’t move. Sherlock huffed a noisy breath through his nose. “Come,” he said imperiously, pointing to the spot next to his feet. The dog, who had been sitting up, lay down, perching her aristocratic snout on her paws. His hackles rose at Mycroft’s chuckle.

Fortifying himself with a deep, resigned breath, he said, “Come, Precious.” The name sounded oily in his mouth, and he puckered his lips in revulsion. Nonetheless, the dog gracefully leapt from her perch and pranced, literally pranced, towards him. She sat at his feet, giving him a distinctly smug look.

Mycroft didn’t bother to hide his smile. “Looks like you’re a well matched pair.”

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked this first bit. Much more to come soon. Please let me know if you enjoyed it.


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